The Bear of Bar Harbor.
I work for the Bratva. At least that’s what my phone tells me the Russian mafia is called. It’s not as if I could ask anyone.
I press my palms to my face, heart thudding. It sounds impossible, but everything fits.
David’s company handles the estate’s financials. The endless money, the hidden security. The way Medvedev looks at people like he’s measuring how much truth they can stand.
I should quit.
That’s the obvious answer.
But I think of Andi and the stability I could finally give her, the school she deserves, and the house on the river. Moving Mom out of Cambridge and having enough financial stability to pursue the job I actuallywant.
For once, the future doesn’t feel like something I have to survive. It feels like something I couldbuild.
I understand why people look away when they should run. Sometimes, danger looks a lot like hope.
Chapter 8
Makari
Evening drapes the estate in silence, the kind that hums with power. Outside, the pines sway in a low wind, whispering secrets to anyone who dares to listen. There are fourKomandasout there tonight—teams moving goods through the dark, ferrying them north. I stand in the surveillance room, one hand braced on the console, watching the monitors cycle through each section of Ursa Arcane’s remote property.
Everything about this place—the stone walls, the steel gates, the wilderness swallowing the perimeter—control built. Mine.
So when I see movement in the wrong quadrant of the feed, control fractures.
A voluptuous figure slips into the northern warehouse. Unauthorized. Unarmed.
I zoom in. The cameras catch a flash of long dark hair, a coat brushing the backs of her legs, and a flashlight trembling in one hand.
Roxanne Adler.
The woman who manages to undo my composure simply by walking into a room. She clocked out an hour ago after a late day prepping for one of Bar Harbor’s many restaurant openingswhere I’m to make an appearance. My jaw tightens. Of all the places to wander, she’s chosen the one that could get her killed if the wrong man found her first. That bunker is where we move shipments that can’t afford daylight—antique weapons, black market tech, artifacts bound for Montreal and beyond. And she’s down there alone, sniffing around like a curious cat at a wolf’s den.
I grab my coat and head out, cutting through the courtyard and down the old maintenance path. The air smells like iron and wet pine. Every step sharpens my anger into focus.
She’s barely been here a month and she’s already reorganized my financials with the precision of a surgeon, and yet she still doesn’t understand what kind of animal she works for. Or if she does, she’s reckless. I thought I made it clear that I could make her disappear just as quickly as I could make her wealthy.
By the time I reach the bunker, my pulse is steady again. That’s the problem with her: she makes me forget to stay steady. The keypad glows faintly in the dark. I punch in the code, and pull the door open without making a sound. I have no idea how Roxanne could’ve gotten the code, but it doesn’t surprise me; she’s brilliant.
Inside, the air is cold and dry despite summer finally settling in the last few days. The scent of oil and gunmetal clings to the stone walls. I can hear her soft footsteps somewhere ahead—too heavy for anyone on staff, and too hesitant to be confident.
I follow the sound. She’s standing near the far table, tracing her fingers along a disassembled rifle like she’s afraid and fascinated at once. Her flashlight cuts a silver beam through the shadows. It glances off her cheek, the line of her neck, the curve of her waist.
“Looking for something, Ms. Adler?”
Her gasp is soft, but sharp enough to echo. The flashlight jerks in her hand, then lands on me—blinding for an instant before she lowers it.
“Jesus, Makari.” Her voice trembles just enough to amuse me. Her throat works with a nervous swallow. “Mr. Medvedev,” she corrects herself. “You scared me.”
“Good.” I take a slow step forward. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I—I know. I just…” Her eyes flick to the crates stacked against the wall. “I heard a noise from the west wing earlier and thought maybe a shipment had been dropped off. I was curious. And all the men are…” She trails off, referencing the teams I sent out hours ago. She’s right; staffing is low tonight. But the group that delivered the shipment knows exactly what they’re doing and where to go, with little supervision.
“You thought you’d check it out yourself?” My tone is even, but my body has already moved into the space with her, circling, close enough that the warmth from her body brushes against me each time she turns to keep me in view. Her warmth draws me to her in this cold dark place.
“I didn’t want to bother security,” she says quickly. “And it’s not like I touched anything?—”
